Keeping with Killers (The Salingers Book 1) (9 page)

'Kid, this has your name on it.' Greg held an envelope between his two fingers.

Blake snatched it immediately, but hesitated to open it. It looked older, tainted, like it had been stained with wet teabags. His name was scrawled across the front in black cursive–his dad's writing, he had no trouble in recognising. He slid his finger under the flap, about to tear it, and then stopped. He felt eyes upon him.

'Well, aren't you going to open it?'

He didn't want to, really, not here, but what choice did he have? The letter was clearly old, so there couldn't have been any troubling news inside. He tore the paper open, carefully unfolded the ragged letter and looked it over:

My dearest Blake,

I write to you from 1993, at the height of my career.

Right now you are only a boy, and I watch proudly as I see you fighting to achieve your dreams. If you grow to be a better man than I am, no matter how easy that may seem, it would please me more than you could ever know.

By now you may have been informed of my death and, if The Agency have done their job correctly, you have been financially compensated and informed of my past. I needn't stress the importance that it remains a secret, and nobody should become privy to that information.

It would not surprise me to learn that you have questions that need answering, not to mention a painful sensation of abandonment. Please know that my retirement should come at the time of my career that my acquaintances become a threat to my family, and that I have left for no other reason than to protect you from my own mistakes.

I will leave this letter within their capable hands and, when the time is right, it shall be handed to you by my colleague and good friend, David Crang.

Stay strong and become better.

Love,

your father

'Looks like he thought better of it. Never handed it to The Agency,' Greg offered.

Blake stifled a tear, folded the letter and stuffed it into his pocket. He looked to Greg, who had been reading over his shoulder the whole time. 'David Crang?'

'Not me,' he stated, immediately recognising the accusation.

'You swear?'

'Far too fucking often,' he quipped, sighed, and patted Blake on the back. 'Come on–we got a body to move and a call to make.' Greg headed for the steps without looking back.

'A call? To whom?'

'The Agency,' he called down behind him. 'Who else?'

Chapter 12

Mister Pimms sat patiently in the back of the limo, where everything smelt of a rich leather and squeaked every time he moved. It wasn't all bad though; nobody could see through the blackout windows, there was plenty of leg room, and at least he had a hot latte at his side.

'Can't we just go in there and get her?' said the driver, overstepping his mark as usual.

Pimms didn't reply. The driver's ideas were unimportant and he should be keeping his thoughts to himself. Besides, they didn't want any of her friends or neighbours to poke their nose in with information about who was seen taking her. No–this would go so much smoother away from her territory, where she could really taste the fear.

They had pulled up just a little too late and seen her head into the building. If everything worked in their favour, she would be out shortly and they could get their job done, as swift and easily as The Boss had made it seem.

The minutes rolled by. Pimms kept checking his watch, which only made it go that little bit slower. He was just about to call The Boss and tell him that she may have left via the rear exit, but it didn't seem wise. If she appeared at the moment he had ended the call, he would still be labelled a failure by his employer, and he knew exactly how that would end.

'That's her,' he said to the driver, his eyes coming to life.

Across the street, the contact that Wilkes had provided stepped outside the building and adjusted the collar of her long, beige trench coat. It was a slim fit for a lean woman, and it suited her perfectly. She glanced over, not seeming to notice the vehicle, and then headed up the street. Her long, blonde hair trailed behind her in the gentle breeze. In other circumstances, Pimms might have asked her out for a drink. But not now–there was business to attend to, and it wouldn't be pretty.

'Alright, pull out slowly. We don't want to scare her. Not yet.'

The driver did as he was commanded, which gave Pimms a sense of power that he very rarely got to experience. He was so used to being ordered around by The Boss that he never got a chance to make his own decisions. Even his home had been chosen and paid for in exchange for loyalty and the strictest obedience.

The limo inched forward slowly, its lights still off so as not to alert her. But that didn't seem to stop her from constantly looking over her shoulder. It was probably strikingly obvious to her that she was being followed, but at this speed and in this manner, it was known to leave the victim with a speck of doubt. This would usually keep them from running, through a risk of feeling stupid if they were wrong.

Of all the years he had been doing this, there had only been one runner–he was a young man who owed a lot of favours and even more money. He had been made well aware of the consequences if he failed to deliver and, as soon as he realised his payments would fall short, he bottled it and tried running to the police. The poor kid had no idea that eighty percent of the police force were dirty, and the other twenty percent weren't important enough to do anything about it.

'She's looking right at us,' the driver informed him.

Pimms peered over the seat. The driver was right; she looked full of fear, like a puppy when pitted against a bigger dog. But still, she wouldn't run. He drew his firearm, a Glock 42 with a suppressor to muffle the gunshot. 'Go!' he called to the driver. The limo shot forward, its engine roared in the way that modern cars do. The woman was right outside the door, and Pimms flung it open. 'Get in.'

The woman, whose name had been given to them as Rachel, gaze a puzzled look; one that said
should I run?
Her knee even lifted a little as if ready to make a bolt for it. She hesitated, put it back down, and then climbed into the limo, her eyes trained on the gun.

'If you're trying to steal some money, I could use some too,' she said as if she had done this before. Not a wisp of fear, but the paranoia lingered in her eyes. She sat across from him.

'Please. Does it look like we need your money?' Pimms closed the door and they were driven off in a seemingly random direction. 'Miss Lawrence, I'm going to lower this gun and we're going to talk. If you try to run, you will not get very far. Do you understand?'

Rachel nodded, every muscle in her body clearly tensed.

Pimms rested the gun across his lap, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and lowered his voice to a whisper. 'We need to get in contact with Mister Blake Salinger. Do you know where we might find him?'

Her eyes suddenly widened. She opened her mouth as if to speak, closed it and paused for consideration. When she tried again: 'He was arrested only yesterday. We haven't heard from him since.'

'
We?
'

'The work force. You knew my acquaintances and where I live. I wouldn't dither to believe that you're aware that Blake is my colleague. If we're going to talk, please don't insult my intelligence.'

Pimms laughed and sat back in the seat, slapping his knee with amusement. 'I like this girl,' he called to the driver, who made pig-like noises from the front seat. 'She's got balls.'

'Well, one of us has to,' she said, antagonising him.

His smiled dropped, just like that. It was like a wave of anger wiped it clean off his face. 'Miss Lawrence, I can only be nice for as long as you are behaving yourself. Now, you must have heard about Mister Salinger's escape from custody. In the very least, news of the trouble he caused through London came your way?'

Rachel's mouth hung open, but her eyes read different from the rest of her face. 'I…' It was difficult to determine how much of this was show and how much was a part of her performance. She was, after all, a salesperson, so her acting skills must have been on par.

'Well?'

'I didn't know–'

Pimms lifted the gun, squeezed the trigger. A whimpering sound flew from the barrel and a loud pop went through the woman's handbag, startling her and making her lip tremble.

'You're his colleague, his best friend, and his next of kin. The police would have come straight to you even without our say-so.' He lurched forward and crossed the limo to sit next to her. He put a hand on her knee and then quickly retracted it. He didn't want her to think this was personal.

'I'm sorry,' she said, realising his position of power.

'That's a start. The sooner you stop playing games, the sooner we can let you go. Now, tell me, how is your mother doing?' The worry in her eyes made him feel all the more in control. He had read about the old bag's condition at the hospital, just as he knew that Rachel paid a visit to her every other day. With that information, she was putty in his hands.

'You wouldn't–'

'You have no idea what I would do. But I can assure you this: if you cooperate with us, no harm will come to you or her.' He looked at her legs; shaking like leaves in the breeze.

'What do you want me to do?' she asked, a cry threatening to ripple through her voice.

'It's really simple. At some point soon, Salinger is going to contact you. As soon as he does…' He removed a business card from his jacket pocket and forced it into her hand. 'Do we have an understanding?'

Pimms watched her as she stared down at it. His hand tightened around the gun. The woman turned her head to face him, and nodded.

'Good girl. Now get out of here.' He half-stood and held the door open for her, grinning like a Cheshire cat. 'Bye-bye now. We'll speak soon…'

Rachel hurried out of the car and headed down the street, keeping an eye over her shoulder as she rushed back to the building she had come out of not long before.

'How about that, huh?' Pimms closed the door and sat back down. It was moments like these that made him love his job.

Chapter 13

Getting Marcy down the steps was the hardest thing Blake had ever had to do, and it scared him just how easily it seemed to come to Greg.

'You grab her feet,' he'd said as if it was nothing, no problem at all. 'You head backwards down the stairs so as the weight isn't on you.'

When they got her to the bottom, they placed her on a workbench with wheels, her short and skinny frame small enough to fit on top with only her feet dangling slightly off the edge. Blake draped a blanket over her that he had found upstairs. He cried his way through mopping the blood up off the floor, and then said his goodbyes.

When it was finally over, he showed Greg where the phone was and took a seat next to it. He didn't necessarily like the idea of making a call to The Agency–he didn't understand how they would benefit from it. Greg had told him that they would send someone, but was he able to handle that?

'Before I dial the number, I need to know that you're on the team,' Greg said to him.

'What?' His eyes were raw with residual tears.

'If the worst of things happen, I need to know that we're both in this together.'

Blake hadn't thought about that. What if the worst
did
happen? He wasn't as confident as this silver-haired man; he had little courage and certainly wasn't a trained hand-to-hand combatant like this man clearly was. 'I'll try to be.'

'Kid,' he crouched, resting his elbows across his knees, '
trying
to be and
aspiring
to be could be the difference between death and survival. I'll help you where I can - you know that - but I can't have you running off like a pussy every time someone fires a weapon.'

It made him smile a little, despite the circumstances. He had been afraid of guns but, with all the recent events; breaking out of the police station, the high-speed chase through London, and seeing Marcy's lifeless body, he wondered if a gunshot would disturb him in the slightest anymore. And with how painfully tired he was, he could probably sleep soundly through a nuclear apocalypse.

'I'm on the team,' he said. 'I'm on the team.' Again for his own reassurance.

Greg took the phone in one hand, placed a small circular device against it and it stuck like a magnet. 'Anti-tracer,' he said to Blake and then dialled a number.

Blake couldn't stop shaking.

The loudspeaker made a screech of the dialling tone. It rang twice, and then a male voice answered. 'Pimms,' it said. 'Identify yourself.'

Blake looked up to Greg, saw his eyes shining with a familiarity. He must have known this man, whether he liked him or not. It hit him then–he was up against his colleagues. This man was turning on his friends and life-long co-workers to help him and his father. Blake admired that, was thankful for it, but when he looked at Greg he couldn't shake the image of Marcy's blood on his hands.

'You know who this is.'

There was a pause on the phone with only one noise in the background. Was it a car door closing? Finally, the man on the other end cleared his throat and spoke. 'You're in a lot of trouble, Adrian. You need to come in.'

Blake looked at him.
Adrian? Really?
He didn't believe it. This man was coming to be Greg, and nothing else.
Nobody
else.

'So you can kill me? I don't think so.'

'It's not you we want. You know that. Bring us the boy and you can get back to work.'

'That… is something we will need to talk about. Alone,' said Greg or Adrian or whatever his bloody name was.

Blake didn't like this. It was beginning to come into perspective now; first he had been pulled away from the police, then his stepmother was murdered in cold blood, and now this man was here, still not revealing his true identity while on the phone to the very people who wanted them both dead. He wondered if he would be better off alone. Alone and far, far away from this place. But then again, it
could
have been a bluff. There was no telling with this guy.